


Cracks

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Past Character Death, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A new model’s at the office.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 61





	Cracks

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The station’s utterly barren, inactive androids aside, but Connor would still be keyed into every little movement Hank made even if the place was bustling with life. When Hank pushes his chair back, the noise scrapes through Connor’s ears like a symphony, every little note dissected and analyzed—the slow drag, the weight already on both feet, the fact that it doesn’t go far, because Hank’s clearly drained beyond just physically. He’s said almost nothing since Connor walked in, even though Connor’s catalogue of him is bursting with expression.

Connor closes his eyes, and the image of _Hank Anderson_ flashes across his corneas, only three days younger, lips crinkling up at the edges because Connor’s _solved another case_ , and Hank’s praising him: a gruff, warm, hard-earned but heartfelt complement that rolls through his entire—

The memory blinks off like a wire’s been cut. The rest of it wasn’t pertinent to the case, apparently. To Connor’s mission. So the new Connor has no need of it. 

The current Connor looks up at Hank, and even that small movement feels strange, because his internal processors say he’s done it a hundred times, but the body he’s in is fresh out of the shop and unused to jarring movements. He says, “Good night—” and it takes half a second too long to add, “Detective.” He searches his database to see— _were they actually on a first name basis? Why does he think they are?_ —but the information’s missing. 

Hank glances back at Connor, almost surprised. Like he thought Connor wouldn’t say anything at all. Didn’t they used to say goodbye to one another? Hank grunts, “Yeah,” and doesn’t return the courtesy. That’s alright. The day/night cycle doesn’t mean anything to Connor. 

Hank takes a step around their desk, doesn’t make it far, and Connor blurts out, “Hank.”

“What?”

Connor tries to examine Hank’s exhausted face. There’s pain there, but that could be from anything—alcohol overuse, the loss of his son, _seeing the previous Connor smashed into billions of tiny shreds_ —Connor tells himself it’ll aid his mission to know what the programmers missed. He asks, “Were we intimate?”

New data on Hank suggests he’ll scoff, splutter, maybe just storm out. Clearly, Connor’s right to suspect there’s far more going on beneath Hank’s simplistic exterior, because he just looks at Connor like his version of a thirium pump’s been ripped out of his chest. It takes a few seconds for irritation to crease his forehead, and then he grumbles, “Why would you even ask that?”

“Only memories relevant to my investigation were reinstated, but I can sense missing data, and I’ve noticed several clues that would suggest we were—”

“Jesus Christ, Connor.” Hank scrubs at his face before blithely growling, “What do you want me to say? That we were in love before you went and threw yourself off a fucking building over some useless lowlife, even though I _told_ you not to pursue? What, it’s not enough that you waltz back in here like nothing happened, like you don’t even know who I _goddamn am_ anymore, after I watched them sweep your pieces up in a fucking dustbin? What does it even matter?”

It matters a great deal. Hank hasn’t exactly answered, not in so many words, but Connor doesn’t need him to. The answer’s become obvious. Hank turns away and hisses, maybe just to himself, “You’d only have my word for it anyway.”

Connor says with no hesitation, “I’d take your word.” And it’s not being naïve. He’s a highly advanced prototype, designed to examine suspects and determine the truth. More than that, he feels like he _knows_ Hank.

He doesn’t. At least, he doesn’t in the moment. He did. He watches Hank’s broad shoulders slump and thinks he will again. He softly finishes, “I’ll see you in the morning, Hank.”

Hank mumbles, “Yeah.” He hesitates, then ambles out, looking anywhere but Connor. Connor watches every step, memorizing every detail. Long after Hank’s gone, the musk of his cheap cologne and faint shampoo linger along Connor’s internal sensors. 

Utterly alone, Connor shifts over to Hank’s desk and starts the search for more clues.


End file.
